These people were so damn nice. I wished I could tell him I took pictures of the Brooklyn Bridge at night. “I work for Andy Dickson over at—”
Recognition registered in his eyes, but his face remained friendly. “Ah, right. So Eden gave you permission to shoot?”
“She was hesitant, but she said I could.”
He whistled. “Wow. Never thought I’d see the day. But she always humors Micah.”
“Does she? She doesn’t seem like the type to humor anybody.”
“Eden’s a sweet girl once you get to know her, but she’s been burned by the media, so she tends to treat you guys with a shoot first, ask questions later kind of attitude.” He chuckled. “Kind of like you, if you think about it.”
I smiled at his little joke, still processing his appraisal of Eden. Maybe there was more to her than met the eye. From everything I’d seen, Eden was a stone-cold bitch. Except when she was alone with Adam. But who would know better than Hervé? That led to another burning question. “What about Micah? Has the media gotten him all wrong, too?”
He grunted a little grizzled grumble. “Tread carefully with Micah, sweetheart.”
I lifted a hand, protesting his inference. “No, I’m just curious if there’s more to him than what’s been reported.”
He half shrugged. “Eh. With Micah, what you see is what you get.” He stepped an inch closer, confidentially lowering his voice. “Although the reporters like to paint him as a serial womanizer, you know? It’s not fair to him.”
“But he does go through women at an alarming rate.”
“He does. But numbers aren’t the only story. If journalists reported more than the who and the what, you’d know that he treats the women he dates very well. He’s respectful and kind. Someday, a girl will come along and appreciate him.”
I laughed. He made it sound like Micah was the victim of a string of women using him.
Hervé abruptly broke into my thought. “I don’t know if you’re going to get anything tabloid-y tonight. This crowd doesn’t appear to be interested in making your job easier.”
He had no idea I was sitting on a story that would get Andy off my case for a very long time. And it would only cost me Eden’s trust—followed quickly by Micah’s. Not that I had much chance of securing Eden’s, but for whatever reason, at that moment, I valued Micah’s opinion more than Andy’s. And if I didn’t squash that instinct, I’d never make it in this industry.
I shared a secret with Hervé that I’d never told anyone. “To be honest, I much prefer taking candid pictures of ordinary people. I understand why people want to see celebrities doing fabulous things, but I’d almost rather capture people here in everyday life. It would be more interesting for me to see Hugh Grant making a sandwich than climbing out of a limo.”
He laughed in a way that was part grizzly bear, part indulgent uncle. “That sounds great. This mug might not be worth photographing, but if I decide to make a sandwich later, I’ll let you know.”
As he peeled away from me to go mingle with his other guests, I peered through my lens and tried to find a subject worth capturing. In a group near the basement stairs, I found Micah. He was looking directly at me. Andy had claimed he was a media whore, but I didn’t think he’d be so conscious of where the only camera in the room was at all times. I snapped a picture anyway. The camera loved him as much as he loved the camera. I didn’t want to stand in the way of that great romance.
He walked over and put his arm around my shoulder. “I want to introduce you to some friends if you don’t mind taking a break.”
I was there at his behest, so of course I didn’t mind. “Lead on.”
Without withdrawing his arm, he walked along with me, ducking his head a little to speak into my ear. “Are you getting any good shots?” His breath tickled and sent goose bumps down my neck.
“Well, nobody has danced on a table yet, but I’m doing my best with what I’ve got to work with.”
“The night’s still young, Jo Jo. Surely someone will suitably shame themselves for posterity.”
Near the foot of the stairs, two weathered old men, wearing what could only be described as vintage rocker attire—jean jacket on one, leather vest on the other—stood, arms crossed, heads bent in conversation. Micah approached and pulled me around by his side.
“Josie Wilder, I’d like you to meet Lars Cambridge and Stuart Michaels. Lars is a reporter at theRock Paper—”
“Yes, I know who Lars Cambridge is,” I cut in, hand out in greeting. Lars was a legend in his own right. Editor of the hottest music magazine, he’d cut his teeth as a concert photographer. They say it’s not what you know, but who you know. Maybe this was a chance to know someone whose career I’d love to emulate.
Once Lars shook my hand, I turned to Stuart and added, “And Stuart Michaels with the Haverford Gallery in SoHo.” Two giants of the art world in this small room.
Stuart nodded and shook my hand. “Did Micah say your name was Josie Wilder?”
“Yes.” I nodded.
He glanced at Lars briefly as if to confer, but then back to me. “Your name is familiar. Have you ever submitted your work?”
